


Half Measures

by AlliSnow



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Master Assassins in Love, Mild Language, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sexy Times, Trust, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlliSnow/pseuds/AlliSnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't know me," she says again. "You've never even seen my file, have you? The whole thing," she interjects, when he opens his mouth to contradict her. "Unredacted." If he hasn't, he's one of the few left in the world with any interest in the subject. <i>Any questions, Clint? Just let me Google that for you. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Half Measures

They're curled together on the couch, limbs tangled in that special, scintillating, half-dressed place somewhere between just making out and full-on foreplay - hands beneath hems, legs splayed, pulses pounding - when Clint arches up, grasping her hips and gasping against her neck, "Fuck, I love you."

It's not the first time he's said it. It's not the first time she's acknowledged the words. But it's the first time since D.C., just like this is _their_ first time since they stopped being agents, stopped being partners, and maybe she's been brooding a bit too much about that, because she yanks his shirt over his head more roughly than strictly necessary. "Shut up."

The edge in her voice, the way she balls up his shirt between her hands like she's considering stuffing it down his throat, just makes him grin. "You want me to go on C-SPAN and say it?" He slides one thumb beneath the elastic band of her panties, pulling it away, letting it snap back against her skin and watching for the reaction she never gives. "You think we should hold a press conference?"

She covers his mouth with her own; it's the only proven way to get Clint to shut up when he's like this, drunk on lust and life and a dusty bottle of wine they found in the pantry, part giddy adolescent, part sexy damn bastard. Only when his tugging at her shirtfront gets distracting does she lean back, pulling the tank over her head and letting it fall to the floor. Clint, propped on his elbows against the armrest, watches this with hungry eyes, moving only when she reaches back to unclasp her bra. "No, no, no." His fingers slide around her wrists. "My turn."

Natasha opens her mouth to tell him to worry about himself - his jeans are still about half-on, for instance - but what actually comes out is, "You don't." _Shit._ She twists her hands out of his and slides a leg across his hips, straddling him.

"Jesus..." His hands slide down to her waist, her hips, her ass, pressing her body more firmly to his; his head falls back and for a moment, just a moment, she thinks her comment has gone unnoticed. But this is Clint... he can hold a casual conversation in the middle of a firefight. His voice is strained but the question comes nonetheless. "I don't what?"

She knows that she doesn't have to answer. She could wriggle down onto the floor, pull his pants off the rest of the way, and literally blow the question out of his mind. Or she could lean in and tell him, in dirty and exacting detail, every little thing she wants him to do to her. But she's going to have to say it eventually, right? She leans forward again, feeling her hair slide across her bare shoulders. "You don't love me."

His hands go still.

She rocks her hips forward, trying to maintain the momentum, trying to rescue the moment from goddamn seriousness and talking and words. But while his body is still interested, to say the least, his kisses are suddenly halfhearted at best. "I... what?"

Natasha huffs in annoyance, pushing her bra straps down off her arms, and this time he doesn't stop her. She focuses on his mouth, his neck, his chest... anything but his eyes, and tries to laugh, tries to sound savvy and dismissive and blasé. "You don't love me. You don't _know_ me." She shakes her head, releasing the clasp of her bra with a practiced twist. "It's okay, it doesn't matter..."

The sudden motion of his hand nearly catches her by surprise; for one wild millisecond she thinks he's reaching for her throat - she could stop him; she doesn't - and another millisecond of strange disappointment when his fingers touch only her chin, her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes. They're dark and wide and... wounded. "You really think that?"

The sternness of his voice sends an unexpected flutter through her belly, and Natasha forces a smile that feels like a grimace. "You don't know me," she says again. "You've never even seen my file, have you? The whole thing," she interjects, when he opens his mouth to contradict her. "Unredacted." If he hasn't, he's one of the few left in the world with any interest in the subject. _Any questions, Clint? Just let me Google that for you._ The only contacts she has left as those she had the sense to make outside SHIELD's prevue, and many of them are refusing to take her calls. Anaïs had been the only one to come through in a pinch, which is why they're currently holed up in one of her company's Parisian apartments on Boulevard Voltaire. She really hadn't thought past hiding from the world and spending the next week, at least, in bed with Clint.

Naturally, she's managed to screw even that up.

He sits up a little, still balancing her in his lap, and the hand on her jaw moves to her cheek, thumb brushing against her lips. The tenderness of the touch, the scrape of hard-earned callus, the penetrating way he regards her... she shudders despite herself, turning her head to catch the meat of his palm between her teeth.

Clint groans again, obviously fighting for control; his words are ground between clenched jaws. "What makes you think any of that shit matters?"

She guides the marked hand down to her breasts. "Because it's who I am." _For whatever that's worth._

He sits up further, one leg on the floor, and her pulse races at the feel of his body shifting beneath hers, of the coiled strength of those half-clothed muscles. She doesn't know if he's planning on pushing her away and walking out of the room, or rolling on top of her and christening Anaïs's sofa, and the not knowing, not controlling, is even more arousing. His free arm wraps around her waist, holding her close. "That's who you _were_." His brow is furrowed, as though he's struggling to put the words together. "Who you are... God, Natasha, that's all I care about."

He kisses her, hungrily, as though sealing in the words. Her hands wrap around his neck, his shoulders, fingernails rifling his hair, scraping against his scalp, sinking into the warmth of lips and tongue and teeth until his hips buck against hers and she gasps at the sudden stab of pleasure. The kiss falls apart; he buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing hard, cursing quietly, while she clutches at the nearest coherent thought. "Goddamn it, Clint, you don't even understand... you've always been _you_..."

It takes her a second to realize that the shaking, the rumbling sound against her chest, is his laughter. He lifts his head, kisses her lips, her neck, her collarbone. "We all act, Nat. All of us. We're all other people sometimes. Even when we're ourselves."

Then he does stand, lifting her easily with his hands beneath her ass, and her legs wrap around his waist, and as he carries her to the bedroom she thinks of all the things she's been taught to be. A spy and an assassin... sure, those were the easy ones. A seductress, a sharpshooter, a gymnast, an interrogator, a detective, an agent... She's been a waitress, a computer tech, an envoy, a hooker, a CEO, a pawn, a mark, a councilwoman... but no one ever bothered to teach her how to be a human being. "I don't know who I am when I'm not someone else."

Clint drops her onto the mattress, watching her wriggle out of her underwear as he steps out of his jeans, kicks off his briefs. The late afternoon sunlight melts around the edges of the curtains, illuminating motes of dust drifting on the air, limning the shape of his body as he looks down at her. "I do," he says softly, affectionately. "You'll figure it out, too."

She shakes her head, not sure if she doubts his declaration or his confidence more, but neither doubt stops her from taking his hand and pulling him down beside her. They lie on their sides and he frames her face in his hands as they kiss, and the touch - so chaste, really, considering all the places he's had those hands - almost makes her pull away. It's too light, too gentle, to be meant for her. And she knows he's waiting for her to make the first move, to push him onto his back because she prefers being on top, but does she really or is that just what she's always done because she craves the control...

Still on her side, she slides a leg across his hip, bringing their bodies even closer together, shuddering in anticipation as one hand moves into her hair. His cheek rough against hers, his lips moving against her ear. "You love me. I want you to say it."

She starts, pulling her face back and trying to ignore the sudden swell of panic. "Clint... you know how I feel..."

He looks bemused by her reaction, then shakes his head minutely. "The words. 'You love me.' Say it."

Her throat is still dry. She should tell him that she can't say that, either, that she doesn't believe it, that saying the words doesn't make them true. If anyone should know that, it's them.

But maybe that was the old them. Maybe this new version of Natasha Romanoff can just accept things at face value, without analyzing every syllable for hidden meanings, without presuming treachery.

No. Even if that were wise, it wouldn't be possible. Not now. Maybe not ever. She'll never be one of those people who can trust by default. On the other hand, if she could trust anyone, ever, it would be him.

It is him.

She looks into his eyes, dark but for where they're brightened by the fading light, and she whispers, "You love me."

**Author's Note:**

> So, this isn't charting any new ground for the characters or anything... it's just a thing that happened. But I hope you enjoy it anyway :)


End file.
